


The Diary of a Mistress

by WickedAnabella



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-01-23 07:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18545230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedAnabella/pseuds/WickedAnabella
Summary: Watson has moved out of 221b to be with his second wife, leaving Holmes alone, spiralling into depression and addiction. In desperation to stem his loneliness, Holmes hires a working girl from Whitechapel. This is her story.





	1. In Which a Gentleman Calls For Mab

When compelled by my acquaintances to release an account of these experiences, I have always demurred on account of the potential damage which may be visited upon the persons involved by the gossip of London Society.

However, now that the whole thing is done with, I have come to put pen to paper, in the hope that the truth be known and that some things which have been said against a man's honour may now be unsaid. I shall not divulge their names here, since my intention is to silence gossip rather than create it, and for those who do not know to whom I am referring - well, I shall not reveal it.

I was born in the year of our Lord 1881, and Christened at St Anne's church in Whitechapel under my original name of Virtue Mabel Christopherson, which served me well until I re-Christened myself Mab so that my name may not be too ironic. The lore of my childhood had it that our surname, unusual in London, was owing to my paternal grandfather being of Scandinavian birth, but the details of that remained vague until my father's death in the 1890s, when I suppose all chance of certainty was taken with him to the grave. My mother, having more than a hobbyist's interest in gin, was of little consequence to me (and I to her, let me assure you) by the time that these extraordinary events began to occur.

Readers may have seen me referred to in the press by many titles and occupations, but I would like to here speak with no false modesty in calling myself a working mistress. The celebrated author Mr Thackeray has written of Miss Becky Sharp's ascension from orphan servant girl to lady of the manor, through mistress to a lord, and though I do not stretch myself to her heights, I believe that faint comparisons could be made. I have never had the pleasure of a lord, but now that half of London knows what I have had, let me tell you in plain truth how it began, that you might think the better of both of us.

In the autumn of 1902, I was in a house. This house was adorned with nothing but bedrooms, and populated by nothing but young girls and one older one; my Mistress, whose name I shall not give here for reasons which may be obvious. It was a tranquil evening, around the hour of sunset - I was seated on a chaise longue, talking with two other girls who were my particular friends, whilst we awaited clientele. I fancied at the time that I looked rather well in my ringlets and low-cut dress with a bustle and ruffled skirts, but perhaps my standards were lowered by poverty and I did not look so well as I thought. Another girl - whom I did not mention along with the others because she was not a particular friend of mine - called excitedly from the window that a gentleman was approaching our door and he looked rich. We as working girls, both loved and dreaded our clients, but there is an excitement and joviality peculiar to people working in difficult confines, which expressed itself as friendly rivalry between us to win the greatest number of gentleman per night.

We heard our mistress greet him in the hallway - his voice was too low to hear, but their conversation continued for a minute or so. This is perhaps a little unusual, as most visitors to our abode will begin with a single instruction, like "The youngest" or "A blonde". It is not unheard of for men to be particular, but I have found it is not common. When my mistress's voice travelled up the staircase bearing my name, I had the same flutter of anxiety that I had every time. However I gave a false smile to my girlfriends who clapped me silently, and I appeared on the landing.

My first impressions were unremarkable; he was not unlike any other man who might call. Then my mistress said to me, "Mab, this is Mr -." I need not say that I almost fainted with shock.

As soon as she said it, I knew it was him - all of London has seen his likeness in the press. I did not know whether he was here for the usual reason, or because of one of these peculiar stories that he pursues in his profession; and because I knew of his connection to the law, I felt a terrible fear for the first moment upon seeing him. But after that, I perceived that his eyes twinkled at me expectantly, and so I smiled my usual professional smile. I should say at first that he looked anxious rather than pleased to see me, but this is not unheard of. In fact I shall say here unequivocally that I recognised from years of experience that this was his first time in an exchange of this kind. Much has been speculated about this, his proclivity to consort with working girls, so now hear me when I say: I was his first.

I descended the stairs. For the sake of delicacy, I affected not to have heard of him. We did sometimes have gentlemen of strong influence and standing arrive at our quarters, and I had made it a rule for myself not to trouble them with the burden of their reputation: as long as they were with me, they were at a refuge from the outside world.

I smiled my best smile and tried to take him by the hand, as if to pull him longingly into one of our bedrooms, but my mistress apprehended me. I was to go with him, instead.

This did not please me greatly. You may suppose that a great deal of roughness is visited upon women in my profession, making me reluctant to leave the premises where my employer and friends can hear me scream. It was fourteen years since the Ripper walked in Whitechapel, but that was still not enough to erase his shadow from my mind. My smiles for Mr - grew more subdued, but I said I would get my shawl, and so we walked out. I felt the eyes of my friends on my back as we left.


	2. In Which Mab Arrives at a Familiar Address

I have already spoken of my instant recognition of my illustrious client, but I shall take this lull in proceedings - we are only walking now, I assure you - to say that he was somewhat different to his Strand counterpart. He was mostly grey now, at aged forty-eight, and while the strong features caricatured throughout the press were exact, the thinness which they tended to portray as elegance, in person looked rather frail and sickly. I have often read in Dr -'s stories of his nervousness of manner - in my mind, that had meant a quick energy barely suppressed, but in fact it was exactly as described: nervousness. He often trembled slightly, particularly his hands, and he seemed very wary of every little noise and flicker about us. Not that he appeared fearful of course, but his senses were manifestly more active than those of anyone I had met before and altogether he seemed thoroughly odd.

Apart from this, he was genteel in his manner, taking my hand up in his arm and walking in pace with my stride which was much shorter than his. The evening was cooler now, the air cold upon my exposed neck which was flushed with nerves. Truly I had never imagined that the literary hero of my childhood would be a client of services such as mine, and while you may call me hypocritical, I was rather disappointed. I had always imagined Mr - as a man quite without moral fault. Some of my clients I may have a superficial affection towards, but I never forget that we are in the practise of what God does not love: them moreso than me. The Bible forgives those who repent, and I had been forced where I found myself by that ransom that so many orphaned girls are faced with: prostitution or starvation.

I enjoy the mental aspects of my work: I enjoy the observation of a man, altering myself to be his perfect companion with little deductions of my own, little things he may say, other women I may hear him mention as his favourites, what he may lead me to say with his questions. Does he tell me early in our association that he misses his mother? He wants a firm authoritative lover. Does he visit working girls regularly? He wants a lover to take his mind of other pressing matters in his life, so I prattle about matters of little consequence like a weak silly thing while performing the bodily aspects of my trade. It is these bodily aspects which I do not enjoy. However, as I have said, I will not deny that the mental keenness which makes me so good a mistress, is something I admire about myself. I always clung on to the hope that like Becky Sharp I would one day rise through the ranks of Society.

Mr - hailed a cab and we came to that address which I had conjured so many times in my imagination. It was a tall white-stoned building with a black door, where Mr - lived on the first floor. He opened the door himself without waiting for a servant, and asked me to be quiet until we reached his rooms. I surmised that this was so we did not attract the attention of the staff.

Readers must now begin to understand the profundity with which I have been moved during my time with Mr -, because the gaping inconsistencies between him and the adaptation of himself which reaches The Strand, even now leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Let me begin by saying that the flat was a terrible sight. Syringes lay on the table and mantlepiece, stale tobacco stained the air so that it was at first hard to breathe, there were holes in the walls that had clearly been made by bullets, a knife held a bundle of papers to the mantle, stacks of papers and suspicious evil-smelling liquids in glass jars lay everywhere on every surface. I do not say this because I have never seen mess before, but because I was all of a sudden keenly aware that I was stepping into the dominion of a diseased mind. My mistress would never forgive me if I had fled, but I confess it was my first thought. Seen in the surroundings of his habitat, my companion's nervousness and notoriety as an eccentric seemed suddenly dangerous. He turned his bright grey eyes on me and I noted again that he seemed anxious.

"Well, here we are," he said. He gave a smile that seemed designed to put me at ease. "Please sit down. Move that pile of paper. Would you like a drink?"

I said I would drink whatever he would drink. He poured us both a measure of whiskey that I considered rather dangerous, before sinking into an armchair opposite me. He remained silent for a moment while his eyes travelled all over me. I was at that juncture stricken with the worry that he regretted his purchase - this is a fear that often plagues me in a career where youth and beauty is one's bread and butter. I always fear that my client will not find me agreeable when he sees me by gaslight. However Mr - impeached me to tell him about myself.

You need not suppose that I am accustomed to doing that, nor to thinking my clients sincere when they ask. I have a form-answer for questions of this type, designed to protect my anonymity (such as it is) and to present an enticing creature to the man himself. I smiled prettily and spoke thus: "Well, I am twenty-one. I have lived in Whitechapel all my life, I am from a large family. I like to have fun. I like older men. I like cider and strawberries and dancing."

He lit a cigarette and waved out the match. "You have not lived in Whitechapel all your life," he said. A thrill went right through me. This was it, this was the magic he was famous for! "You have spent time on the south coast, where your fortunes were a little better than they are today. You are also not from a large family. I do not entirely believe that you like older men. As to cider, dancing and strawberries, you may like them or not as you please."

"How could you know all that?" I said, amazed.

"Oh it is very easy. Your shawl is unmistakably of French origin, however you purchased it in a pawn shop: it is of a style common when I was young, but it is unlikely you have inherited it from someone, because it has not been much worn: I gather therefore that it has lain somewhere since it was almost new. A young lady with so distinctly a particular type of English accent has likely not spent time abroad, so the most likely place for you to find a French shawl in good condition is the south coast, where exchange between the two nations is at its highest. Your fortunes were good there because your scarf is a treasured possession: it does not go with your dress but still you wear it, and you have not pawned it yourself, meaning that its sentimental value to you is high. You have no close female relations, I believe, because that dress was made for you, that is unmistakable from the tailoring, it is precise. Usually women in your situation share dresses with their sisters or mothers to save on expense, but that dress is uniquely yours, even though it cost you everything you have, which I say because you have no jewellery and only the one shawl. Am I correct?"

"Unfailingly."

He nodded, but I thought he looked quietly pleased. "As to your claim that you enjoy the company of older men - I saw that you were a little phased when you saw me. For that I am sorry. I hope however, to give you a better night than you would have had at the hands of someone else."

"Sir," I said, "you are a little mistaken on that point. I was not disappointed to see you, I was rather taken aback - that is to say, surprised," I added hurriedly, "and I thought it best to be discrete in case you did not want to be recognised."

He smiled at that, but it was a smile tinged with some other emotion. "You know me then?"

"As well as one can know a person one has never met."

This answer seemed to please him. "I am afraid I shall disappoint you," he said. "For I am not at all like the man in the stories."

I ought to say here that in these early hours of our acquaintance, sincerity was not my intention. My intention in these scenes is always to find what will give the man pleasure and square myself with that. The sad way he spoke of his fictional alter prompted me to say lots of things about how I was surprised how gentle his manner was, how kind his eyes, not at all like the thinking machine described by Dr -, and how I was sure that he was a very tender, sympathetic gentleman after all; that I was sorry if I had faltered when I first saw him, but now I was sure that we would enjoy each other's company very much.

I realised quite soon after that he was not taken in by me. Indeed, he poured himself another drink and said "I had thought you rather more sincere than that, Mab."

Here I accepted that I was dealing with a sharper intellect than I was used to being engaged in a seduction with. I did not yet succumb to actual sincerity, but decided to frame myself as an innocent. I said, with an air of resignation, "I am trying to give you what you want, Mr -. I am sorry if I have misjudged it."

"What I want," he said, "is another person in the room. As you have doubtless read, along with the rest of the Empire, I am a man with neither friends nor charm to the fair sex." He rested his gaze on me. "I am terribly lonely. I have not brought you here to flatter me with words about how handsome you find a man of nearly fifty, I have brought you here so that I might feel there is another presence here beside me." There was something so wintry in his voice as he said these words that I felt awfully sorry for him. I could not speak, for I feared that if he saw my pity towards him, he would be embarrassed.


	3. In Which Mab Spends a Night With Her New Acquaintance

After much thought, I have elected not to name here some of the other clients I have heard of, except to say that the noted novelist Mr X lives up to his name in every way; that the celebrated poet Mr Y is excessively enamoured with the human foot; and the great actor Mr Z is rumoured to practise an interaction that would see him exiled were it to come to light! Thus it was that in my mind, any gentleman of the famed class had come to be intertwined with desires of the most eccentric sort, and so all of this first evening with that man who is still the first and only in his field, I had been preparing myself for what may come.   
  
After my first whiskey, which I had nursed carefully while he made his way through three - it is dangerous for a woman in these circumstances to become drunk - the clock was approaching nine. Mr-- rubbed a hand over his face, as if to wake himself up. “You must hide,” he said, “do not come out until I fetch you.” He showed me into his bedroom, and I began to steel myself for the physical act to commence. I heard some commotion in the rooms outside, but I busied myself removing my dress and boots, until I was in my undergarments - for those ladies who may be reading, I shall advise you that men enjoy removing the undergarments themselves. When Mr-- came back, he looked at me with a queer expression but did not as I expected, pursue me to the bed. Rather, he asked me to come back out into the sitting room. On the table was now laid a splendid meal, and there was a copper bath steaming away by the fire.  
  
Mr-- smiled and bowed me to the table. “Enjoy,” he prompted me, but I was puzzled.  
  
“Am I to eat this?” I said.  
  
He looked a little dismayed. “Do you not want it?”  
  
“Yes,” I said, “but will you not join me?”  
  
“No,” he said. “It is all for you.”  
  
He poured me the wine and sat opposite me at the table, but never tasted a morsel himself. I fancy that in his own subdued way, he showed great interest in watching me.  
  
“Is everything to your liking?” he said at one point.  
  
I nodded vehemently, my mouth being full of duck.  
  
At this moment, I thought that his interest was in watching me eat - it is not unheard of for men’s interest to lie in watching a woman receive sensual pleasure - but there I was wrong again. Or that is to say, I was not entirely correct.  
  
When I had finished, I had to refuse his many attempts to give me more wine, and then he directed me towards the bath.  
  
Before the fire, I attempted to undress seductively. He averted his eyes at first, then watched me with a rather worried expression. I became frustrated with myself. Finally I asked what I had been wondering all night; “Am I doing something wrong?”  
  
He said, “Do not try to flatter me with false attentions, Mab! Don’t you want the bath?”  
  
I said I did, and so I got in. He sat beside me in the same armchair as before. I tried here to create some flirtatious intimacy between us by resting my feet on his knees. He smiled at me, but it was not the smile of one enraptured by anticipation. It was somewhat like the smile of a father to a young child.  
  
He asked me if the water was warm enough and I assured him that it was. Something began to be clear to me: his desire was somehow tethered around what I thought. He had wanted me to want dinner, he had wanted to know whether I was enjoying dinner, he asked me if I didn’t want the bath and now he was asking me about the water. Here at last was the information I craved - his desire was to see me enjoying myself. Despite this, he disliked me creating a show for him and could tell when I was doing it, no matter how highly I may regard my own skills as an actress. With this in mind, I lay back in the bath and willed myself to truly enjoy it. Mr-- caressed my feet in a way that made me moan with genuine feeling. “Your feet must get tired walking the streets all day, dear lady,” he said. “I could not help but notice you limp very slightly with the right.” His thin, nimble fingers found a most painful spot in my right ankle and dug into it so deftly that I was almost in Heaven.  
  
I lay in that bath until the water had almost grown cold. He wrapped me up in a towel that was the cleanest of its kind I had ever seen - as a girl in my profession, I was impeccably clean, but I fancy that did not place me high up on the barometer of Society. Mr-- was always very clean, no matter how far his other circumstances fell, as I had occasion to note to him.  
  
Now, I thought, finally, now it is surely time he will take me to bed.  
  
Here again I was surprised. Not because he did not take me to bed, but because he asked for my advice upon the matter.  
  
His very words were, “Would it be uncommonly crass of me to ask you to lie in bed beside me?”  
  
We were sitting in the warm light of the gas lamps and the fire, not to mention the glow of whiskey and wine. When he said these words, I felt very attached to him. I trampled those feelings, because to be attached to a client by the strings of your heart is very dangerous indeed. I do not mean that I felt ardour towards him because I really do like older men - I do not - but that there was something in him at once impeccably chivalrous and devastatingly vulnerable, and it was this quality that made me feel at first that I may have the very homunculus of love for him. Whether he was devising himself to be attractive to me, as I had planned to do to him, I was not able to tell at that time. But for the night, I felt that I may perhaps enjoy surrendering myself to him.  
  
I sipped of my whiskey and said, "I think that would be fine."  
  
Perhaps readers will tire of me repeating these words, but I do so in earnest - here again I was surprised! Because although I went to bed nude, my client came back from the water closet in his nightshirt. By this time I had lain in his bed, splaying myself invitingly, with the covers arranged to show my bosom to the best advantage and though he could surely see me, there was nothing moved in his expression. He turned down the gas, and climbed into the bed beside me. The slowness of his movement in doing so led me to imagine that he felt uncertain of himself here, though I could not see his face. There was no fire in the room and I was a little cold. Beyond this, I was expectant, and greatly puzzled when I began to perceive that the night would not unfold as I had imagined. I was almost in shock from it all - I had met a famous man, I had been forced to make a re-evaluation of everything of a man I had believed myself to know well all these years, and now I was dizzied from the effort of trying to understand his deepest desires. He had said of course, that he merely wanted another person in the flat with him, but his expressions watching me dine and bathe had certainly persuaded me that he was, in his own eccentric way, wooing me. Now here we both lay in the cold darkness.  
  
It was a small bed, meaning that we were both crammed together side by side. At first he was rather tense, so I turned on my side and placed my arm around him. He did not try to move away, so I supposed that he liked it. Of course two living bodies in a bed together soon become warm, and that combination of warmth and darkness is most lulling. I found the scent of his hair oil comforting to breathe in.  
  
“Are you comfortable?” he asked me some time later. I said I was and enquired the same after him. He said he was quite content, though he could not sleep. With the forwardness allowed me by my profession, I pressed my face close to his and said, “Are you happy?”  
  
“I am glad to have you here,” he said. It was polite, and most evasive. He was not happy.


	4. Mab has breakfast and reflects on the encounter

I give details here which some may think extreme, but which I have decided to publish here because I believe that the point that I grow to, is in the public interest to know. Regardless of that, much has been speculated about the origins of my dealings with Mr ---- and now you know as much about them as I do. It is true that I was engaged at a house of ill repute, and it is true that Mr ---- came there to pay me for my company, but my company is all that he wanted. While you may think it odd how he unfolded the evening, he told me in the darkest hours of the night what his motivations were.  
  
“I have seen you before,” he said. “I have seen you walking the endless tread around Whitechapel, and there is something unmistakable in your expression. You did not have the lewdness and artifice that is common in your profession. Rather there is something intolerably sad about you, and very pensive. In my moments of sentimentality, I have thought that perhaps… you are the same as me.”  
  
All of my experience in dealing with men compelled me to say “Yes, darling, we are completely the same!” but I did not, for his words had me so taken aback that I could not make a reply. When had he seen me? I had never seen him. How could a man make so piercing a judgement from seeing my face without even speaking a word to me? Was he even correct in this assessment, I wondered, for I am a woman who is more concerned with looking outwards and understanding other people than looking inwards and understanding myself. If I was sad, it was news to me, but he was right that I found it impossible to be outwardly seductive and solicitous as other women in the game are.  
  
I have always found that there was an intangible wall between myself and other people, as though some corner of my heart is always impervious to happiness or some part of my brain always watching, taking notes, keeping me from losing myself in any emotion. Often I have wished that I could switch it off so that I could fully feel enjoyment or attachment to other people, but I never can. I said as much to Mr ---- now, and he replied emphatically, “Yes, that’s it, completely!”  
  
I shall say now what was revealed to me later, that you may have a clearer understanding of this situation than I had at the time: Dr ----, longtime friend and collaborator and celebrated biographer of my client, had left their shared lodgings to live in Queen Street. Mr ---- was, he said, “desperately upset” about it, but the doctor had left anyway, meaning that Mr ---- was divested of his only friend. After trying to reconcile himself to this new state of affairs for some weeks, he found that he could not shake off the lowest of moods, and he began thinking about how to get someone to spend the night with him, that he might throw his pain into relief. He said, “Believe me, it was a difficult thing to come around to the idea. It had crossed my mind before, but I had always dismissed it. I had no desire to put my lot in with an industry that sees the downfall and death of so many young women. But I thought with the desperation of a hungry man. Until W---- moved out, I never had a need of another friend, but now here I am facing old age alone. Indeed I think it is worse than being alone, for W---- deserted me for someone else.”  
  
The idea jumped into my head to tell him that he and I would be friends now, but I decided it was too shallow an offer to a vulnerable man: I wished I could bestow upon him a true friend, instead of one paid by the hour. As I could not, I merely cradled his head in my arm and spent the night beside him. He did not lay his hands on me at all that first night.  
  
\---  
  
Much has been written about the curt manner of Mr ----, but I shall tell you something that his so-called Boswell never did, or perhaps never perceived: there is a great deal of difference between the curtness that comes from genuine disinterest and that which comes from guardedness, such as an animal must seem aggressive when it is nursing a wound. I had scarcely spent twelve hours in the company of Mr ---- before I realised that he was afflicted by the latter, though apparently Dr - did not see as much in twelve years. In the morning, he treated me haughtily (or tried to) by avoiding my eye and speaking to me brusquely, but I understood at once that he was guarding his heart against harm. He was perhaps embarrassed that he had told me of his loneliness and sadness, but what I was certain of was that he secretly hoped I liked him and would try to win his affection again. He would like me to ask why he is treating me so, so he knows I care what he is thinking. I have seen it in men time and time again.  
However, I am not (or was not, at that time) in the business of tricking men into thinking I had genuine feelings for them, I thought this a very dirty trick indeed: what I was cultivating was an honest transaction between myself and the client. So while I felt deep in my bosom that Mr ---- was a kind and wounded man deserving of someone’s affections, I did not make any motion to enquire after his mood or pretend that I really cared: he ought to treat me however he saw fit as long as he was paying me to do so.  
  
He directed me to eat his breakfast, while he sat opposite reading a large and varied correspondence, most of which seemed to meet with his derision. “People asking me to find their dogs,” he said.  
  
After I had breakfasted, he took some money from a locked drawer in his desk. He had already paid my mistress for my time of course, but I wasn’t too proud to accept a little extra for outstanding service. He said, “I won’t embarrass you by asking whether you’d like to see me again. You may get out of here. However, I am going to be at home next Friday night, and I would be glad if you would call on me. If you do not, I will accept your answer and never trouble you again.”  
  
“What time shall I call?” I said.  
  
He said, “Before eight. I shall despair of you at eight.”  
  
“But I am coming.”  
  
“We shall see,” he said grimly, and fairly threw me out of doors.  
  
\---  
  
I returned to my place of work, as well rested and well fed as I had been in many years, and so, ready to make merry with my girl friends. They all wanted to know was that the Mr -. I confirmed that it was, adding with pride that he had seen me out on the street and asked for me personally because he so loved my face (although I held back the reason why). They asked me very pointedly what he “liked” and no one believed me when I said he had not attempted the physical act with me at all.  
  
“He’s so old,” they kept saying. “I never thought he was so old.”  
  
“Why not?” was my testy reply. “He has been in The Strand since we were children!” Of course most of us girls cannot read, so to explain the meat of the stories to them was wasted effort: they saw him as some modern Arthurian knight, who simply went about London solving injustices for posh people, and waving around chemicals in beakers with no purpose other than to seem clever. The real man I had spent the night with, who spoke of his fear of facing old age alone, was a Music Hall character to them.  
  
Despite my philosophy outlined earlier, I did wonder at his apparent scepticism that I would return next week. What was it that had made him so suspicious of me and my word? All through that week, I thought pensively, headily about the coming day when I would see him again.


End file.
